


Games of Make-believe

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Avarice, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Issues, Dark-ish, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Implied Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Intimacy, Loss of Virginity, Moral Ambiguity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Roleplay, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Sansa spends two years in the Eyrie with her protector, waiting out the storm outside, and playing make-believe.Her cheeks are hot with embarrassment, with a kind of shame even though they are both dressed, with an animal enjoyment at being so relaxed in his lap, at the way she fits against him, at feeling safe.He holds her tightly and tells her sweet things, secret things just for her, until she drifts towards sleep and feels herself be laid out on her bed, furs tucked tight around her.





	Games of Make-believe

**Author's Note:**

> Ten vignettes of Sansa's time in the Eyrie, taking place in an alternate version of seasons five and six, and beginning with her lie to the Lords of the Vale.
> 
> **Content notes: I've written Sansa as being more of an active participant in her relationship with Petyr than in the books/show but there are the usual Dom/sub undertones and background consent issues from the power imbalance and his history with her family. I'm not sure how old Sansa is supposed to be in seasons five and six but she's in her late teens in this fic.
> 
> if you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/169381461442/sansa-spends-two-years-in-the-eyrie-with-her)

 

_"...because the truth is always either terrible, or boring."_

 

 

 

### One

 

"Think of a lie like a story, or a mummery, a game of _make-believe_ ," Petyr had told her one afternoon in the cabin of his boat, standing too close to her as was his wont, running a hand softly, slowly, down her arm, eyes glinting in the gloom.

His voice was the only voice she heard that fortnight, hidden away in her cabin so that no one would catch a glimpse of red hair on deck, and it washed its way into her thoughts, her dreams. She would wake with his words ringing in her eyes, with the ghost-sensation of touch on her cheek, her shoulder, but when she checked the door to her cabin it remained locked from the inside.

Locked in her room, she would think, running a finger across the bolt, like a princess in a locked tower.

That was her favourite story, her favourite game as a child, to pretend she had been abducted by some villain, kept locked in a small room full of comforts that he hoped would sway her to his side, lying indolently on the bed in the silk gowns he had bought her, eating the lemon cakes he had brought her, waiting to be rescued by some golden knight with a good heart. She played it with her brothers sometimes, in the broken tower at Winterfell, and they would fight off the monsters and villains and appear at the door to carry her down the stairs shrieking delightedly at how quickly they ran and how she bounced about in their arms.

And yet, each time she played it, or listened to the story told by Old Nan or a maidservant, or daydreamed about it in the long nights of the North, she couldn't help but feel an odd twinge of disappointment when the princess, when _she_ , was rescued.

She thinks of the story as she waits to be called to give her testimony to the Lords of the Vale; thinks of how tall the Eyrie is, how Joffrey and the Lannisters could not find her here, could not scale the walls to drag her out, and how, without her aunt, it might be the very sanctuary she was promised. Petyr was like the villain, the captor from those stories, whisking her away to his lair. For what end, she was not sure, but did it matter? He was covetous, she could see that, she wasn't a fool, and he was unlike to let her go, he wanted to keep her. Did she want to be kept? Of course not, she tells herself, and yet the idea lingers.

And so she lies to the lords, she plays a game, and believes it so wholeheartedly that the tears drip easily from her eyes as she is hugged and shushed and told that she is a brave girl, as she looks into Petyr's eyes and finds then watching hers, dark and proud.

 

### Two

 

"I told you once that you were a bad liar," Petyr says, sweeping into her room an hour after her audience with the lords, "but now I stand corrected."

He smiles at her, his hands held neatly in front of his immaculate embroidered surcoat. She remembers noticing his dress the first time they met, how different it was from the men of the North, from her father.

She doesn't know what to say in response. The lies and the tears had come so easily she feels almost cowed, muted, in the aftermath.

"Now," he adds, sitting himself carefully on the edge of her bed where she has been resting, trying to embroider with shaking hands, and he lifts her face with a hand beneath her chin, "since the Lady of the Vale is no more, there are rooms as yet unoccupied. Rooms which might suit you better than this drafty little cell. Would you like that, sweetling?"

"Yes," she whispers.

His brushes his fingertips up her cheek and then he stands up.

"And you will need new gowns of course to befit your new status, shoes, girdles," he adds, touching her waist as she stands up to join him, "jewels," he notes, touching her neck, "hairnets," he brushes the crown of her head, and she feels so overwhelmed by these small touches, the coaxing movements of his hands.

She used to dislike the way he touched her, it used to make her feel frozen in place, but now she finds herself swaying towards him as he takes her face in his hands and brushes a light kiss on her cheek, her forehead. The tension she felt during her mummery in front of the lords, the uncertainty she hid, now leeches from her and makes her feel heavy and tired.

"You could fall asleep where you stand, couldn't you," he murmurs, and she nods her head in his hand and he puts an arm around her waist to hold her up. "I'm proud of you, sweetling, proud of the woman you've become," he says, and she feels warmed to the core.

 

His promises are true, he lavishes gifts upon her in the next few moons — gowns of silks and velvet; jewels of every colour; books with such heavily worked covers that they creak when she opens them; expensive thread for her embroidery; slippers so delicate she only wears them inside her rooms.

He buys these gifts not just to thank her for saving his life, she thinks, but also because he seems to enjoy seeing her dressed in the things he has bought, as if he is the artist and she his masterpiece.

She likes it too, likes that she does not have to hide who she is or scuttle away from her aunt, that she can indulge her old vanities again, the ones that her septa had hated and her mother had frowned upon.

"It is only right for a beautiful lady like yourself to wear beautiful things," Petyr tells her one evening as she makes a half-hearted attempt to refuse the gift of a new gown, making an argument that people will realise who she really is if she dresses too fine.

The Lords of the Vale know who she is, but their servants do not, neither do their lesser bannermen or the other visitors to the Eyrie. To them, she is his niece who he spoils indulgently.

"My indulgence of you," he says, lifting a hand to curl a lock of her hair around his finger, "reflects well on me. Just as my care for Robin does. A man who cares for his family so, extravagantly, is not a man in full command of his wits, is not a scheming man."

He shifts back and lets her hair drip through his fingers. He had touched her hair before he kissed her in the garden in the snow. But he has yet to kiss her again on the mouth since that day.

Perhaps he blames her, perhaps she had tempted him in some way and now the memory for him is inextricable with the grim scene that followed? Yet this is unlikely, since he has not mourned her aunt in anyway.

Perhaps he thinks that if he kisses her he will get carried away and do _more_.

Perhaps he does not want to kiss her again because he thinks she did not like it. At the time she had only been startled, yielding for half a moment to the feeling of his lips on hers, the brush of his beard on her chin, before pulling back. But since then, she has thought about it again and again, and wished she had not pulled back so quickly, so she might know what real kissing is like.

She finds herself staring at his lips when he talks, wondering how to make him kiss her again, licking her own at the thought. Sometimes his eyes catch on her mouth and darken, but he makes no move to embrace her, only brushes light kisses on her forehead, her cheek, her hand; his moustache tickling the skin in such a way that makes her want to groan strange noises.

What if he never kisses her again? What if she remains pure and untouched for years until he finds her a husband? For he will find her a husband one day, she has no doubt, once the turmoil of the North has settled and he knows who the victor shall be. But she is trying not to think of that, of leaving her tower here. No, she shall not think of it, the future is another day. She shall think on kisses instead. On _more_ than kisses.

At night, she sleeps in her aunt's former bed and remembers the noises she heard on their wedding night, imagines that _she_ is Petyr's wife, his ladylove. She pretends that every creak on the landing outside her door heralds his footsteps, that he will sweep into her locked room and kiss her and press her down on their bed, that he will do such things to her that have her moaning and calling his name. And while she imagines this, she touches herself in the secret way she has learned, but never did when she lived in King's Landing, fearing the eyes that might look through peepholes in the walls. Here, the only greedy eyes that might look on her as she does this, as she writhes very quietly in bed, are _his_ and she might almost welcome them, wicked though that is.

 

### Three

 

"I don't want to get up, I don't want to dress properly, I don't want to do anything," she says, without the strength to even turn her head.

She is late to meet with Petyr in his solar. He has said that if she wants to act as the Lady of the Eyrie then he must teach her more about her new home — not the simple list of houses that she learned as a child, but the particular riches of the region, its trades and travel routes, and most importantly of all, the characters of its lords, their weaknesses and foibles.

But she does not want to learn, she wants to stay in bed and forget everything.

The bed moves as he settles himself to lie beside her, head propped on his hand. He brushes a soft finger down her cheek and then brings his hand back and she turns her face on the pillow to see him. She can smell the mint of his breath this close, see the flecks of different colours in his eyes.

"Can I tempt you out of bed with lemon cakes, perhaps? Or a new gown, a necklace?" he asks softly.

"No," she says, not even excited by the thought of pretty things, of lemon cakes tart on her tongue.

"Hmm," he says, "this is quite some melancholy then."

He is quiet for a moment, looking at her, and she looks back, unashamedly.

She has been sleeping in fits and starts, and is dozy and warm. It is hushed in here, as if no one outside her room exists, and there are only a few handwidths between them.

His moustache and beard are threaded with grey. She finds herself reaching out a curious hand to touch, to rub her finger back and forth through the bristling hair.

He smiles. "That tickles," he says and she looks up to meet his eyes, his warm gaze, and then flushes, and takes her hand back.

"It's quiet in here, isn't it," he remarks, shifting his body on the bed. "We could be anywhere — a hut in a snowy forest, a room in a great palace, a tent in the deserts of Dorne, or in some green bower in a tall tree in Riverrun."

"Do you miss it, Riverrun?"

He huffs a breath. "I miss the green perhaps, and I used to miss a particular shade of red," he says, smiling as he strokes a thick lock of her hair that curls on the bed between them. "What were you like as a child, before I met you?" he asks curiously.

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "The same as I am now, I suppose. I liked pretty things—" she pauses. I liked my family too, being loved by them, being surrounded by them, she thinks, and her face creases with pain.

"I'm sorry to upset you, sweetling, I should not have asked," he says, laying his palm on her forehead, and the warmth of his skin leeches the tension away.

"—I liked stories, songs," she continues after a taking a few quick breaths.

"Tell me your favourite songs, your favourite stories," he whispers, demands, his eyes eager, his voice smooth as the arbor wine she drinks now at each meal.

"The usual ones," she says, and he scoffs.

"That's not an answer."

"I always liked the songs about fair maidens who are locked in towers, stolen away," she says softly, and then turns the question on him because she feels silly to have said what she did. "What are your favourite stories?"

"Why, the ones where poor but pure-hearted boys defeat cruel and unworthy lords, where the hero risks all for his ladylove," he says, reaching out to brush the backs of his fingers gently down her cheek and she feels her belly tremble, and then her eyes prick with tears when a look of such sadness passes across his face.

But in a blink, his expression changes, and he smiles warmly. "I shall try to think of fresh stories you might not have heard before, hidden away as you were in the North, stories about fair maidens and their travels to wondrous new places, to palaces filled with riches that those in Westeros could only dream of."

"I should like that," she says, and smiles.

"Good," he adds and then reaches his hand to touch the skin around her mouth, "you look so beautiful when you smile, Sansa," he murmurs, and then slides a thumb across her lips which part with the pressure.

His head shifts towards her, his mouth twitches as if he is going to kiss her, but then he moves back and stands up from the bed.

"I am sorry you do not want to have a lesson today," he says, the intimacy of the moment washed away by his distance, his casual tone of voice, as if he does not truly care to teach her, as if it does not matter to him either way. "I hope you will feel better next week."

And then he turns and leaves and her stomach falls. 

She runs a finger across her own mouth. Perhaps he does not kiss her because she acts so like a child, uninterested in the wider world outside; because she _disappoints_ him. She does not want him to ever be disappointed in her, to ignore her and grow cold with her. She wants him to love her, to want her.

 

### Four

 

"Of course she's bastard-born, look at the way she moves," she hears as she dances close to a pair of ladies who are gossiping about her.

The Eyrie is holding a feast, and Petyr has gifted her a new gown in reward for her diligence at their lessons these past six moons. She told him he would have bought her a new gown anyway and he laughed at her and said, _just so, you know me too well._

How _does_ a bastard dance, she wonders. Was there something different about the way Jon danced so long ago? She cannot remember.

I am only a bastard, she imagines as she whirls around the floor, my maidenhead is worthless, my lusts unbounded.

She glances across the room at Petyr, who is watching her as he always is. He will share one dance with her, he told her when he came to her rooms to see her dressed in the new gown, as he circled her and touched her girdle.

 _One,_ and now she must dance with other boys and men and wait for that single dance. And yes, a couple of them are handsome and charming, she supposes, but their eyes do not devour her like his do, it is not their arms that she wishes would enfold her.

She drinks large gulps of wine in between dancing partners, as if it will make the hours pass more quickly, and when the time finally comes for him to dance with her, she is quite deep in her cups.

"You're very flushed, sweetling," he says as he places his hands around her small waist, making her body heat even more.

"It is warm in here tonight."

"Is it?" he murmurs, turning her about the floor.

She nods and the movement makes her dizzy, makes her clutch him tighter.

"And you are dancing awfully close," he adds and she can hear the smile in his voice just as she can feel the warmth of his body so achingly near.

"Am I? Forgive me, I am out of the habit of dancing."

He huffs a laugh. "Well, you are still the prettiest dancer here, even if you are half drunk," he adds, not unkindly. "You have drawn the eyes of everyone tonight. Have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Yes," she says, "but only because I have finally got to dance with you."

"You are too kind, I know that your other dance partners have been far more skilled than me," he says, brushing off her faltering attempt at flirtation.

If she were a bastard she would go to his rooms after the dance and have him take her to bed. She would know what to do, how to seduce him, but she is not.

"Shall I escort you back to your rooms?" he asks once the dance has finished, "I fear that you will fall asleep if I set you down at your seat again."

"Yes, Petyr," she says quietly, forgetting that a niece would not use his first name.

"Come along," he says indulgently, taking her by the hand and leading her from the hall once she has made her leave to the other guests.

The corridors seem narrower tonight and she drifts so close to him that he has to right her with one hand on her shoulder and the other on her waist.

Will he come inside her rooms, will he take her now, she wonders dreamily, as they come to a stop at her door.

He rests his hands on her bare shoulders, thumbs softly stroking the skin. She gazes up at him and he looks back at her, his expression inscrutable.

"Goodnight, sweetling," he says, and bends to kiss her cheek, his mouth landing just next to hers so that the very edge of their lips touch.

Then he steps back and walks away and she runs into her rooms and flings herself on her bed, muffling her noises of frustration into the furs.

 

### Five

 

"The courtesans in Braavos have barges do they not?" she asks one day, fingering the different models of boats in his solar that he was gifted during his time as customs officer, and thinking about boats. And courtesans.

"They do," Petyr says, eyes flicking up to her, voice curious. He leans back in his seat. "Who has been filling your head with tales of courtesans?"

"The ladies at King's Landing talked of them sometimes, of how they were whores and harridans, but they always sounded jealous too, of their money and beauty," she says.

"Only the most beautiful women can become courtesans, it's true," Petyr says.

Like me? she wants to ask. She sidles around his desk to stand next to him as he watches her carelessly, hungrily.

"How much does a courtesan charge for a kiss?" she asks.

He laughs delightedly, and she pouts at him, feeling herself slip into a role.

He pulls his chair back from the desk and she slides in front of him. He reaches around for his cup of wine, almost touching her, but not quite. He takes a sip and looks at her over the rim. Then he unlocks a drawer of his desk and brings out a bag of money, setting it down with a clink.

"One moon," he says, lifting out the silver coin.

She holds out her hand, and he places it there, curling her fingers around it.

"You may kiss me, good ser," she says, bending towards him.

"May I?" he smiles.

He places a hand behind her head, and pulls her to him. He kisses her. Lightly, gently, just as he did in the snowy garden, and then he slants his mouth and dips his tongue into her mouth, coaxing her, teasing her, devouring her as she trembles and kisses him back.

He breaks the kiss and sits back in his chair, looking unruffled but still hungry.

"And how much does a courtesan charge for sitting in the lap of a man, for letting her neck and shoulders be kissed?" she asks.

"Hmm," he says, putting a finger to his lips in consideration. "Five moons, will that suffice, do you think?"

She nods. Her cheeks feel as hot as if she has drunk an entire flagon of wine.

He takes five coins out of the bag and gives them to her. She stacks them on the desk beside her carefully and hears him breathe a laugh. "Keep good care of your fortune, my dear."

"I shall," she says primly and then she comes closer until his knees press against her legs through her gown.

"Are you looking for assistance? I thought a Braavosi courtesan like yourself would know how to sit in a lap," he chides, smiling, and running a hand up and down her side.

She rolls her eyes, turns her body to the side and sits her legs across his lap. He tugs her closer and she curls her arms around his neck. He is so warm, and it feels so good to be in his arms.

"Kisses on the neck, you said," he murmurs, and starts to plod dry kisses down her neck, his moustache tickling the skin pleasantly, as she arches herself towards him.

He starts to suck at the point where her neck meets her shoulder and she squeaks and shivers in delight. He moves his mouth to suck at the point just under her jaw, and his hands rise to smooth along her shoulders, to palm her neck as he bites at her skin and then soothes the indentations of his teeth with soft laps of his tongue.

"And how much does a courtesan charge for baring her breasts so a man may touch them?" she finds herself saying breathlessly.

He pauses in his work and sits back, keeping a firm grip on her with his hands. "One dragon," he says in a deepened voice, and then he kisses her deeply, working his tongue into her mouth to taste every nook and cranny. He fumbles in the drawer of his desk with one hand and sets a small chest on the top of the desk, breaking away from her with a gasp to find the gold coin and place it in her hand. She sets it next to the pile of silver moons.

Then he moves his hands to the front of her gown. "Tell me, sweetling, are you particularly fond of this gown?" he asks.

"No," she says, shaking her head in confusion.

"Good," he says and takes his hands and rips it down, tearing the fabric of her gown and then the thin shift underneath too while she gasps with shock and delight.

"Sweetling—" he says, staring at her breasts as if he wants to eat them, a notion which makes her giggle, and he grunts when he sees them bounce with her laughter. "You will be the death of me," he groans and then takes her breasts in his hands and the feeling has her laughter turning to gasps.

His _hands_ , his fingers, his _mouth_ as he nuzzles her breasts and kisses them, sucks on the peaks until they ache—

"And to take a maidenhead?" she asks, gasping, her head whirling like she is tumbling down a hill, "how much would a man pay for that?"

"Sansa—" he says, voice so very rough, and clucks his tongue, the corner of his mouth lifting wickedly.

"You owned brothels, didn't you, Petyr?" she asks, hands grasping his shoulders. "You can teach me tricks to fake my maidenhead, for when I marry, can't you?"

"I can—" he says, and shifts her on his lap. "Would you like that? For me to be the one who has you first?"

She nods and he clutches tightly at her hips.

"But you will have to be the courtesan now," she says. "And teach me what to do, for I am unlearned in this."

"Gladly," he bites out, then laughs wickedly and drags her up and pulls her into his bedchamber next door.

He crowds her down onto a bed covered with silks and furs, with heavy velvet curtains threaded with gold. It is hard for her to catch her breath, she feels so excited, her nerves like the strings of a harp plucked by his hands.

He tugs off the rest of her gown, her shift, her smallclothes, sucking and kissing every new patch of skin revealed, zealously studying each new part. _Beautiful_ , he murmurs, _perfect, Sansa_ , and she squirms under the praise. The last piece of clothing to be removed is her silken stockings which he peels ever so slowly, teasingly, down her legs, and then he stands at the foot of the bed staring at her, almost looking lost for a moment before his usual lecherous smirk returns. He squeezes her ankles as if to get her to remain where she is — where else would she go? she wonders hysterically — while he pads over to his money chest.

"And your price?" he calls out. "Twenty dragons," he says, unlocking a cabinet and lifting out a heavy bag.

He carries the coins over to the bed and considers her. Then he places two of the coins on her chest, just above her breasts, and her breath catches. The coins feel heavy, weighted, the gold bright in the corner of her view. He places another two just below it, close to her heart, and then another further down and then another and another. He lines them up on her skin, his eyes darker than she has ever seen, as she gasps and tries not to move lest they slip.

The last he places just above her cunt and then he fits his mouth below it to sup on her and she forgets to be still and curls her legs up desperately, clutching his hair between her fingers, and the coins go flying onto the bed. He spreads her thighs with his hands, digging his fingers in to stop her from dragging her legs together, making hungry noises into her cunt that make her gasp in shame and excitement, and sooner than she can imagine, she peaks, far harder, better, than any peak she has found at her own hands, and sobs his name as she clenches and spasms.

He pauses and sits back on his heels, carelessly ripping open his jerkin and flinging it behind him, pulling up his tunic, and tugging down his breeches and smallclothes as she watches shivering intermittently, fascinated at seeing the body that lies underneath his fine clothes. He is wiry but strong and the hair on his chest, the trail leading down below, surprises her. His manhood makes her blush and look away and when she looks back he is smirking, almost preening.

She brushes away the coins from the silks and furs, lest they bruise her tender skin, and they roll away and clatter musically onto the floor as he crawls, stalks, up over her and then his hands dip between her legs, his fingers stretching her, making a place for himself, his words crooning and soft, his manner so overwhelming after a year now of stolen touches, as if she is drunk on his attentions.

He lifts her legs up around his hips, his belly pressed tightly against hers, and her hands fly up to clutch his shoulders, and then he ducks his head to swallow her cries as he thrusts inside of her, taking her for himself.

His thrusts are heavy, slow, accompanied by quiet grunts that make her thighs twitch. It feels like he is bruising her inside, but it is a pleasurable bruise, an aching, prodding, hurt that turns her moans into wanton whines, that uncovers a well of pleasure hidden inside of her, that makes her peak again deeply, eyes filling with tears, and voice close to a scream.

He peaks moments after her but she is insensible to notice or to watch him, she can only pant and squirm while her body sparks and hums.

"Good," he murmurs, "perfect, sweetling."

"Petyr—" she says, her voice cracking, and he shushes her and strokes her skin, settling her down.

He shifts his body next to hers, and gathers her up to lie over him and she drifts into a doze.

She revives as the wood in the fire cracks loudly. He is running a hand up and down her bare back, and using the other hand to play with her hair. She lifts her head and looks at him and he smiles at her, as close to a soft smile that a man like him could make. She looks down at his chest and brushes her fingers along the scar hidden amongst the hair.

"The power of stories, sweetling, the mad things they make us do," he says. "We must be the singers of our own songs, remember that." He kisses her forehead and then gets up to search for wine, brazenly walking the room naked while she looks her fill. "You know, the greatest courtesans are very learned women, more learned than many lords themselves—" he begins.

"As are noble daughters, and wives of great Northern lords," she says, wryly.

"Exactly," Petyr says.

"Do you not think I have been taking your lessons seriously?"

"I know you have. I meant only to suggest that one should always strive for _more_."

Just then, his toe hits one of the coins she forgot and he makes a pained noise that has her laughing.

"Courtesans also take good care of their money," he admonishes, and she scrambles out of bed to gather up her golden dragons.

"Do not steal them, they are mine," she says, dodging him and laughing.

"You will have me poor as a beggar soon, if I am to pay you in gold dragons every time we lay together," he says, and she stops and turns to him.

"You have already bought me, my lord. Do I not belong to you now?" she asks, wide-eyed, and he groans and drags her back to bed to ravish her again.

 

### Six

 

One night, tired from another long day of studying scrolls and books, she dreams of her father dying, of her family being dragged away from her while she is trapped by unseen hands, and wakes with a dry sob.

Petyr is travelling in the Vale and she misses him with an ache in her chest, and feels a little ashamed at the strength of it. She is not a child to run to her mother for comfort, she tries to remind herself, she is a woman grown.

And yet the feeling lingers throughout the day, grief like the peak of a wave on waters that have been still for many moons.

Everything feels _hard_ , and sorrowful — her embroidery, the walk through the gardens with the gardener, her conference with the cook, her hour spent reading ledgers with the maester.

The announcement of Petyr's return has her racing towards the entrance of the keep and she arrives just in time, his cloaked form unmistakable as he crosses the threshold and she feels her heart warm when his eyes flick up to meet hers and he smiles that pleased smile he keeps only for her.

When he approaches her, he rubs a thumb in the hollow under one eye. "You look tired, sweetling," he says softly.

"Running the Eyrie in your absence is tiring," she replies, and then steps back as he cocks his head slightly, unconvinced by her half-lie.

At dinner everything seems to hurt her — the heat of the fire behind their table feels too hot, the voices of the feasters too loud, the scrape of knives on plates grating. Sitting in the hard wooden seat makes her bones ache and there is an itch in one of the scars on her back. She feels weak and reedy inside, as if she is a doll that might collapse at any moment.

"Sansa," Petyr says quietly, and she realises that he has already said her false name twice. "Are you alright?" He takes her hand and squeezes it but she does not even have the strength to squeeze back.

"I'm fine," she says in a whisper-thin voice.

"The meal is almost done, we can leave now," he says.

He escorts her through the halls and up the stairs with an arm around her waist, almost holding her up, waving the servants away as they approach her rooms, and the moment they are inside and the door is closed, she burst into noisy tears, her chest heaving, her hands covering her eyes.

Petyr bundles her down onto the bed, his face creased with worry, murmuring endearments and concern.

"What's wrong, my love? How can I help you if I don't know what ails you?" he asks.

"I had a nightmare," she says between breaths, "about my family."

He brushes his hand down her arm, strokes her creased forehead with his fingertips as her tears gradually lesson. He leans down and tugs off her shoes, unties her cloak to leave her in her favourite velvet gown.

"Nightmares can linger," he says and she nods her head where it rests on the furs of the bed, feeling young and fragile and like she wants the world outside her room to vanish for just one night.

"We should play a game to make you feel better," he says softly, taking off his own shoes and cloak and settling back on the bed by the pillows.

"What kind of game?" she asks warily, her voice still thick with tears.

"You sit in my lap to start with," he says, tugging her towards him.

She sits close, one hand clutching his shoulder, legs across his lap. If he makes a move to undress her now, she thinks she will weep again, she feels so shaken inside, so raw.

"And then what," she whispers after a too-long pause.

"You call me father," he murmurs and her breath hitches, "I call you my sweet daughter," he continues in his silken voice, as if he has not noticed her turmoil, "I tell you that I am proud of you, that you are good and perfect," he says and she feels her breath shudder, her body melt into him as he curves his arms around her, stroking one hand over the crown of her head, down her loose hair, "I tell you that I will always look after you, sweetling, that I will never _ever_ leave you."

Her cheeks are hot with embarrassment, with a kind of shame, with an animal enjoyment at being so relaxed in his lap, at the way she fits against him, at feeling safe.

He holds her tightly and tells her sweet things, secret things just for her, until she drifts into sleep and feels herself be laid out on the bed, furs tucked tight around her.

 

### Seven

 

"If you don't sit still and read that ledger from front to back, I shall have to punish you," he pronounces from the desk opposite the small table she sits behind.

"How?" she asks, sticking her chin in the air.

She is bored and restless, and feeling contrary. He has charged her to read one of the ledgers he used while he was Master of Coin, and then he will test her on its contents afterwards. An uncommonly tiresome task for anyone, let alone a girl who hates numbers.

" _How_ will I punish you?" he asks, rubbing his fingers through his beard, leaning back in his chair, eyes fixed on hers, "As a tutor must, with a cane on your backside. Or as a septa, by forcing you to write lines for hours on end. Or as an indulgent guardian to his spoiled charge, by taking you over my knee. Which would you prefer? You may think on it _as you do the reading_ ," he bites out angrily, his eyes glittering.

This is new, and it excites her. He has been so tolerant of her all this time, delighted whenever she was rude and petulant, _tsk_ -ing her, regarding her with a wicked smile, frustrating her to further crossness so that she stamped her foot or threw her embroidery across the room or screamed, and he would only sigh, and say her name, and slip out of the room and she knew she could hardly follow and keep shouting at him for fear of others seeing her behaving so reprehensively. He has yet to _punish_ her.

She thinks on it as she pretends to read the ledger, shifting in her seat. A cane would hurt and she does not want to experience sharp pain like that again, like the swords on her back from the Red Keep so long ago. And what is the point of a punishment of writing lines? She would only sit there and refuse if given such a task.

She has no memories of being spanked before. When they were young children, the most Catelyn did was whack them over the head with her palm if they were being particularly terrible, or slap away their hands if they were reaching for things they should not.

"Have you chosen your preferred method?" he asks, "for you are clearly in need of correction."

"Over your lap," she says, voice shaking just a little.

"Fine," he says brusquely, and stands up from his desk to sit on the couch. He taps at his thigh. "Here," he orders.

Her mouth twists at the shortness of his manner and she hesitates once she has moved to stand before him, so that he sighs disappointedly and drags her over his lap.

She is expecting him to bare her from the waist down but he doesn't, he hits her over her gown, jolting her and making her grasp his leg for balance.

It hurts, but not badly, and as the hits of his palm continue, her skin starts to sting, even with the protection of her gown.

He grunts as he hits her, holding her down when she begins to shift, and she can feel his excitement against her belly.

"Should you not like to pull up my skirts, my lord?" she asks, gasping.

" _Like_ to?" he replies, "I do not do this to slake some strange lust, I am your guardian, I do what I must."

"No lust?" she gasps, wriggling around in his lap over his hardness.

"No," he says and hits her again, lifting his hand higher and higher before he stops after she lets out a loud squeal.

He pants above her and she twists to fall in a heap at his feet.

"Now," he says, pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger, "are you suitably chastised?"

He shakes her head back and forth, and she knows that he is both playing and deadly serious, that a part of him has always wanted to spank her thus, and she wants to dig her nails into that part of him, to burrow deep and find out the true dark maelstrom of his feelings for her, but she fears a purer anger from him if she did, he who still tries to hide so much of who he is from the world at large.

"Yes," she says.

"Good," he says, and nods.

She stands up and staggers over to her seat behind the small desk and bends her head over the book, trying to catch her breath. She does not look up at him but she knows he is watching her, and the heat he left on her skin soothes her restlessness to a quiet contentment.

 

### Eight

 

"Hmm," he says, "my princess is sleeping after a long day of merriment and must not be woken."

Her mouth twitches as she tries not to smile. She has laid herself out on his bed, her hair loose and long around her shoulders in the way they both like, wearing her thinnest gauzy robe and her silkiest stockings, her hands held at her sides in the image of sleep.

Once, at King's Landing, something like this would have terrified her with the fear that her tormentors would find her, but here she knows that she is safe, that the only things to happen to her will be what she wants, will be Petyr taking her body and turning it into something new, worshipping her.

She hears him close and bolt the door and then his soft footsteps on the stone floor towards her, a slight brush of displaced air across her prickling skin. The excitement of not seeing, of not knowing what he is about to do, of the idea of her body laid out for his enjoyment, makes her shiver on the bed and her breath hitch.

"I must be careful not to wake her, hmm," he says as he sits down on the bed and she feels her body lean towards the depression of the mattress.

She feels the sensation of a limb, a hand, hovering over her skin and then the gentlest brush of a finger on her cheek, and her eyelashes flutter. He drags his fingertips down her jaw and into the dip of her neck and across her collarbone. He walks his fingers down her breast and then swirls a single fingertip gently around the hardening peak.

There is another displacement of air and a shadow falls across her eyes and then she feels his lips press against hers and she tries her hardest not to kiss back.

He kisses down her chin, her neck which aches to arch, her collarbones, and then over the thin fabric of her robe. And then he sucks the peak of her other breast into his mouth and her hands clench in the bedclothes as she tries not to gasp. He pulls at it with his mouth, flicks his tongue against the very tip and then draws back and the cold air across wet fabric makes her shiver.

"And what's this," he says, lifting up the skirts of her robe, "no shift or smallclothes. How _strange_."

She tucks her mouth to the side to hide a grin.

He slides his hand in between her thighs and starts stroking her cunt softly, building her pleasure slowly.

He fits two fingers inside of her and uses his thumb on her nub, watching her as she tries not to squirm, as she pants, and then he dips forward to mouth at her hips, the soft skin of her lower belly.

She peaks and jerks up, clasping his hand in place between her legs, as he laughs delightedly. But she does not open her eyes, she falls back on her bed and pretends to sleep and he gets to his feet and kisses her softly on the forehead, laughing a breath.

"You shall be a mummer yet, Sansa Stark," he says and walks towards the door.

But the pretence is suddenly too much and she opens her eyes and bolts up and calls out his name.

He stops and turns around. "Are you well?" he asks.

"I think I frightened myself," she says. "Stay with me a little longer?"

"Of course, sweetling," he says.

 

### Nine

 

"I don't want to leave here," she says sullenly, staring out of the window of her room.

The war for Winterfell and the North has a victor, an _unmarried_ victor who will take her as his wife and make her his queen, or his lady, should he capitulate his title at the bequest of a Southron queen, as Petyr thinks he will.

Petyr sighs, "I would marry you myself and keep you safe here if I could, sweetling," he says, moving beside her to stroke her hair back from her face, "but you are the last Stark, if you do not marry the next ruler of the North you will only be a target. Don't you want to avenge your family?"

"No," she whispers and it is only half a lie. "I want to stay here with you, and never have to leave."

"Life is not a song, sweetling," he says. "Once the princess in the tower is rescued she has to rule alongside her prince."

"And if she never leaves?"

"Then she dies there," he says darkly, "she withers away and loses her bloom with no one to look upon her, no reason to preen."

"You're cruel," she says and turns away but he stops her with his hands and tugs her to face him.

"I'm honest," he says, "I love you. I won't have you waste yourself here when there is so much more you can be."

"Did you know about my brother, about who he really was?" she asks. It is pointless to ask whether he lied or not, because she did not ask him a question for him to answer with a lie.

"I suspected."

"And what would you have done if he were still my brother, would have made us into Lannisters?" she says scornfully.

He smiles easily. "But you are not brother and sister, so there is no use in idle speculation."

She feels her lip curl in anger.

"Do you remember him well," he asks as he leaves her at the window to fetch two cups of wine, "is he as honourable as they say he is?" he asks, his voice sour over that word like it is distasteful to him.

"Perhaps," she says mournfully, and then turns to look at him. "Will you come with me, will you come to Winterfell?"

"I shall accompany you to meet with your betrothed, and I shall make visits from time to time, as befits our alliance. I gifted him knights of the Vale to help take back your home and he is in my debt. But I will not live there permanently, I will be needed here in the Vale and in the south at King's Landing."

He speaks so reasonably, so calmly, as if her time here has meant nothing to him and she hates him suddenly and her eyes fill with tears.

"Sansa—" he says, ever watchful of her every mood. "Don't you want to go home and be safe there?" He cups her face in his hands. "The North will be yours, my love, the whole of it, from sea to sea, from Wall to the Neck. _Yours_ ," he repeats.

She finally lets herself picture it, after two years of wilful forgetting. She pictures herself at Winterfell, in her home, and her tight shoulders fall with the weight of it, with all the loss, and aching homesickness. She did not think she would ever return home, not really, even though he had promised her she would one day.

 _Home_ , _Winterfell_.

But she is not who she was when she left. Who is she now? Who is she away from the walls of the Eyrie and out of the shadow of her protector, her captor, her lover, her guardian?

 

### Ten

 

"You think I would let you go? Truly? I had you first, nothing can take that away," he says, and she feels the echo of his words, his dark eyes, in her heart and her cunt both. "I'm not planning to foist you off on another man and never see you again, sweetling. I am simply planning us a better future."

They are at Winterfell, in her old room, arguing. Something about her being here, about her leaving the place he was lord and master of, seems to have undone his apparent measured state of mind.

"Now," he says, collecting himself and nudging her back towards the bed, "will you let me say a proper goodbye to you, my love?"

She lets herself fall back on the furs and he kneels at her feet, green eyes glinting, smirk in place, as he peels up her gown, the gown he bought her, and leans forward to place his mouth over her cunt. He has her peaking within moments and keeps his hands tight on her hips as she tries to buck him off before peaking again deliriously. He helps her strip her gown and then removes his own clothes and crawls up over her as she tugs him down and lifts her legs high around his hips.

He muffles her cries with his kisses as he takes her and then with the palm of his hand when she gets too loud which he must know by now only drives her more crazy. And when he has peaked and spread his seed across her stomach, she curls into him and lets the tears leak from her eyes onto his shoulder, and he holds her tightly and tells her he loves her, tells her he will return for her, that he will never _really_ leave her.

And then he brings her more wine, and they discuss her betrothed, who she met yesterday for the first time in many years, and who she will marry in a few week's turn.

"He has been amongst only men for many years, in the harsh northern wastelands, with no comforts," he says, sitting beside her on the bed. "Tell him a new story, create a new world for him here, of softness, luxury, refinement. Let him find you drowsing in soft gowns on his bed, wearing no hard stays underneath," he adds, brushing a hand down her side. "Sit at your mirror when he appears for bed, brushing out your long silken hair with drops of rosewater, invite him to brush your hair too, to feel the fall of it in his rough palms. Sing to him sweetly when he is tired or ill, plucking soft fingers on the strings of your harp," he says.

He sets down his wine, lying on the bed next to her seated form, closing his eyes as he sets the scene, "Sew him soft undertunics that he is embarrassed to let any other man see, so that he takes the touch of you, the scent, wherever he goes, feels it next to his skin underneath his jerkin. Pluck flowers from the glass gardens and arrange them in your rooms, in your hair. Let his head rest in your lap," he says, and does just that, "stroke your fingers through his hair," he orders, "let him curl into you as if you are his mother."

She sees his belly expand and contract as he breathes in deeply, and then he blinks his eyes open to look at her, "and as for bedchamber sports," he says and stretches his body out next to her, lying indolently. "You will have to fathom that for yourself from the tells I have taught you. Does he want a shy maiden, or a hot little thing, a matron to put him in his place, a whore, a septa, a _sister_ ," he says and catches her hand when she tries to slap him. "Can you do that?" he asks.

"I shall have to, if my marriage shall be a success."

"Just so. And he is handsome, no?" he asks slyly, "broad shoulders, sullen lips, rough warrior hands. Just the kind of man a young maiden like yourself desires."

"I am no maiden," she says sulkily.

"I know," he drawls. "A terrible villain got there first," he says, dragging her towards him and then climbing above her, taking her wrists in his hands. "He forced you, didn't he sweetling, and it was terrible, wasn't it?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head back and forth on the pillow.

He flexes his hands and breathes heavily. He does not want to let go of her, all this is a show for _him_ , she thinks, he wishes he could hold her down and not let anyone have her.

"Ah, Sansa," he says mournfully and releases her, cupping her face in his hands as her eyelashes flutter.

His mouth opens as if to speak, to say something he will regret later, and she saves him from himself by nudging her chin up to kiss him softly from lips to jaw.

He returns the kisses, peppering her face with them, making her smile with his love, his concern, and then he rests beside her on the bed, touching her hair and staring at her as if to memorize her.

 

When she stands on the ramparts of Winterfell and watches him leave with his guard from the Vale she cries again, feels a great tearing panic in her as if she wishes she could run after him and stop him, and never let him leave her. It is as if she is losing her father again, she thinks, and tries not to be ashamed for that thought. She has clung to him and now she feels torn asunder knowing that he is not nearby, that she cannot run to him or slip inside his room at night when she is frightened, shake him awake and have him hold her while she sleeps and keep her safe from nightmares.

She should feel ashamed, she should feel wrong, and rotten to the core, and a small part of her does. But shame did not help her survive when she lost her family, and it will not help her now. She had tried to live in the way she had been taught was right — to trust in her parents, to take the side of her betrothed, to be dutiful, to believe that everyone was good and would be good to her — and she had lost everything. So she began to follow different rules, ones which Petyr helped her write, ones which will help her survive.

He has taught her to be cynical, to be wary and shrewd, and yet he has also spent two years indulging her love of storytelling, of make-believe. Was it another kind of apprentice for her life now, where she must pretend she loves her husband and is happy?

She is Sansa Stark again, she is the queen she always wished to be, and she is home and safe. He may try and argue that life is not a song, but look at her now, look at the ending she could never have hoped for during those dark days at King's Landing.

And look at him. He had repeated the very story of his favourite song, and stolen away the flame-haired princess of his dreams all for his own, correcting the youthful failure that almost cost him his life. He had taken her and made her his.

And though she has now been rescued from the Eyrie by an honourable lord, a _King_ , a part of her will always be in that tower with the villain who became her lover; and a part of her will be waiting for her hero too, her dark knight, who is the very same man, to climb into her bower and save her once again.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to hear what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/169381461442/sansa-spends-two-years-in-the-eyrie-with-her)


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